Grandmother

Grandmother,

your hands were the first map I learned to read—

rivers of time, soft hills of sacrifice,

lines that carried our family forward

when words were scarce.

You called me son

like a blessing folded into a name,

and suddenly the world felt smaller,

safer,

as if storms needed permission to reach me.

In your kitchen, silence learned how to sing.

Tea steamed like patient wisdom,

and every story you told

stitched yesterday to today

so I would never forget where I came from.

You taught me that strength whispers.

That love doesn’t rush.

That prayers don’t need an audience—

only honesty.

When life bruised me,

you never asked for explanations.

You just opened your arms,

and somehow that was enough

to heal what I couldn’t explain.

Now I walk roads you once imagined for me.

I carry your voice in my choices,

your courage in my pauses,

your faith in the moments

when I almost give up.

If time ever asks me who raised my soul,

I will say your name softly—

the way you said mine—

and hope heaven hears

how grateful a grandson can be.